


a promise (not) kept

by tunasimp (witty_kitty)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, Hurt Wilbur Soot, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Nov. 16 — Wilbur’s death, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tired Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot Angst, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade are Twins, Wilbur Soot is Not Okay, ao3 get rid of philza’s real name challenge, bit of a vent honestly, but it’s like four lines, but there are a few lines at the end that take place in-canon, happy ending... kind of, lots of triggering content, set pre-DSMP canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28443414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witty_kitty/pseuds/tunasimp
Summary: Wilbur has not been okay in a very long time.Pre-DSMP Canon — mind the tags!
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 21
Kudos: 362





	a promise (not) kept

**Author's Note:**

> only sadness in this one, boys. 
> 
> tws: self harm, suicide attempt + ideation, referenced drug use

Wilbur hasn’t been okay in a long time.

It doesn’t bother him much anymore — the pangs of exhaustion and stress have worn themselves into him like an old beaten path, and he can’t remember how to function without them. He’s an addict, high on anxiety and pain and whatever else is wrong with his fucking head and body (and actual drugs too, but he’s been forced to go cold turkey a while ago — not that it’ll last). He feels something close to a thrill whenever he rucks up his shirt and watches blood well up from the thin neat lines along his hips, something that only it and alcohol are able to give him, a bitter distraction from the mess of emotions that make him up.

(It’s a good distraction from the guilt curdling in his stomach too.)

Wilbur dances atop a crumbling cobblestone wall with death, where a single slip up could send him falling off a cliff and into the cold empty void. He considers just... jumping off sometimes, but the thought of Phil or Techno blaming themselves combined with his own cowardice is enough to stop him. He feels a bit like an attention-seeker — does he really have a problem, or is he just overreacting?

(He’s overreacting. He’s always overreacting, a fucking attention whore.)

He could get help. He should get help. But every time he tries, shame clogs his throat and forces the words back down. _Slicing open your skin just because it “feels nice”? You’re pathetic, Wilbur._

Wilbur reflects on this in the solace of his room, dragging the sharpened, leather wrapped sliver of iron across the pale expanse of his thighs. It’s kinda funny that his best kept weapon is the one he uses to hurt himself. He’s pretty sure he could make a pretty good joke about it, if he tried.

His hands shake lightly, trembling from either withdrawal or blood loss. Wilbur’s not entirely sure which one. It cuts a jagged, unsure line, one that makes the perfectionist in him fume. Prime, this would be easier with cigarettes.

There was a time he used to smoke them and then burn his skin with cigarettes, but then Phil found his pack left carelessly on his bed, and well... they were promptly banned, and his things were searched through regularly for a few weeks afterwards. (He’s not pissed off about it, can’t be — not when Phil had been exceedingly kind and patient throughout the entire thing, even telling him he could smoke all he wanted when he was twenty-one.)

(He didn’t have the heart to tell Phil he probably wasn’t going to reach twenty-one.)

All Wilbur knows now is that he can’t go a day without either slicing himself open or drinking himself to death, desperate for the fuzzy high at the end. And since he doesn’t have any more drugs, this is the next best thing. It’s so much harder to hide, though. This is the first time in days he’s gotten time alone, everyone else out buying supplies at the markets, and by Prime, he’s going to make the most of it.

Maybe that’s why Wilbur gets careless, so focused on chasing the feeling that he forgets to lock the door, that he doesn’t hear the rest of them pile in, that he doesn’t hear Tommy bounding up the stairs until the younger boy is slamming the door open, ready to show his older brother the _fucking awesome toy he found at a stall—_

The silence as Tommy’s voice cuts out is deafening. The two of them stare at each, and it’s almost funny the way Tommy’s mouth moves, no sound coming out, like a fish trying to gasping for air.

Wilbur tightens his grip on his knife, ready to make up a lie—

“Tommy? Wilbur? Is something wrong? It’s too quiet up there,” Phil calls from downstairs, and that breaks the spell, spurring Tommy into action.

 _“Phil!”_ His younger brother screams, sprinting down the stairs, and Wilbur can do nothing but run after him, tugging up his pants along the way, ignoring the burning chafe of denim against mutilated skin. _“Wilbur’s— Wilbur’s fucking—!”_ Wilbur manages to catch him by the collar just as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, pulling him backwards and clapping a hand over his mouth.

Phil and Techno stare from where they’re setting the groceries on the table. “Uh... is everything alright?” Phil asks while Techno frowns, snout twitching slightly. (Fuck, how is he going to play off Techno’s sense of smell?)

 _“It’s fine!_ Everything’s... fine,” Wilbur smiles awkwardly, ignoring the way the younger boy squirms in his grip. “There was just a misunderstand— _argh!”_ He yelps as Tommy bites down on his hand, slamming his head into his chin hard enough to send Wilbur stumbling back into the front door. “Tommy—!”

 _“Wilbur’s fucking hurting himself!”_ Tommy blurts, eyes shiny, “There was so much blood, it’s all over his legs, _Phil—“_ His brother keeps babbling on as Phil pulls him close, and Techno won’t stop staring at him, and his legs hurt, and there’s blood seeping though the denim of his pants that’s not going to wash out, which sucks because these jeans were his only pair that weren’t ripped or dirtied and _oh Prime, they know._

How could he be so fucking careless? He should’ve locked the door, should’ve been more aware, should’ve done this somewhere else, should’ve, should’ve, _should’ve._ His fingers reach up to tug at his hair, and it’s only when he hears Tommy’s quiet gasp does he realize he’s still holding the knife, just as bloody as his hands.

The world stops.

He’s all but told them at this point. There’s no way to salvage this. Oh Prime, they know how fucked up he is now. They’re not going to get rid of him, but he can practically see what’s going to happen next. Awkward conversations and side glares, wanting to get rid of him but they can’t, a misplaced sense of obligation—

No. No, he can’t let that happen. He won’t let that happen.

What is he supposed to do, though? He wants to move, wants to say something that’ll make this entire thing disappear, but what is there to say? How is he going to explain away the bloodstains or the knife? He’s _stuck._

Wilbur feels the weight of their stares on him, can hear Phil‘s sharp inhale as Techno curses, but nothing truly registers anymore. It’s only when Tommy reaches out that the world starts moving again, that _he_ can finally start moving again, running out the door and into the woods without a second thought.

* * *

His feet take him to the side of a cliff.

He’s not sure where he is, or if he’s anywhere near the house. The sharp pain from his cuts has long dulled to a throbbing ache, his thighs itchy and sticky from the blood-soaked denim.

Wilbur feels dirty and gross and fucking awful, instinctive paranoia beginning to creep up at the sight of the sun going down. Mobs will be coming out in a few hours, wandering around for any unsuspecting people still out. Not that it really matters — Wilbur’s not going to alive by the end of the night. He has a plan. Well, it’s more of that he has no other plans except for this one.

As he peers over the edge, he can see that there’s no water at the bottom, just jagged stone and some coal deposits along the side. It’ll be a quick death, but not a neat one — it’ll leave his body horribly mangled and broken. Wilbur sighs, wishing he could leave a note or something, but it’s not like he can just go back to write one. He’ll just have to make do without one. (His communicator lies switched off in his back pocket. He could use it but... they’d be able to track him with it.

Wilbur doesn’t want them to find his body.)

At least there won’t be a mess.

There’s surprisingly little fear (that’s a lie — he’s so fucking scared) as Wilbur walks towards the very edge, a weird and empty calm filling him as he looks at the sunset for what seems to be the final time. (He doesn’t want to jump.) Maybe he’s just so fucked up and numb, maybe it’s a subconscious thing. (He doesn’t want to jump.) As much as he wants to say goodbye, he’s glad none of his family is here to see this. (He doesn’t want to jump.) It would break them. ( _He doesn’t want to jump._ )

Wilbur stands and takes in the sunset one last time. It’s beautiful, oranges and purples and pinks streaking the sky, creating a beautiful ombré effect that he’s sure Phil would appreciate. Tommy would probably focus on other things, and Techno wouldn’t think much of it. _It’s just the sun setting, Wil. It always does this._

Wilbur doesn’t realize he’s crying until he tastes salt on his lips.

He really doesn’t want to die without saying goodbye.

Shakily, Wilbur pulls out his communicator and switches it on. One call, and then he’ll hang up. One call, and he’ll jump. He’s so tired. He calls the party between the four of them, and it’s picked up almost immediately, much to his panic. He hasn’t even planned out what he’s going to say—

 _“Wilbur? Wilbur, thank god, where are you? It’s okay,”_ Phil’s voice crackles through the speakers, muffled by the sound of wind and feathers rustling. _“Just tell us where you are, we can talk about this!”_

 _“Don’t do anything stupid,”_ Techno agrees, static crackling. He can vaguely hear Tommy in the background, yelling about how stupid he’s being, but then he abruptly cuts out as the call ends on his side. (He’s not wrong.)

“I- I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore.” The apologies fall from his mouth as fast as he can say them, oh Prime, this is going to be the last time he’ll ever talk to him, he has to make it count. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t look for me, I won’t respawn, just forget about me _please—“_

 _”Wilbur, I need you to talk to me.”_ Phil’s voice is commanding and firm, a deep tone that he has only heard very few times through out his childhood, but it never fails to make him stand to attention. _”What are you about to do?”_

“...’m gonna jump,” he admits quietly, “I’m so tired, Phil. I wasn’t planning to— I didn’t— I can’t come back. I’m too messed up.”

_”You’re not, Wilbur—“_

“I am!” The yell echoes through the forest, and fuck, he’s just yelled at Phil. Phil, who’s trying to help his sorry ass, Prime he’s such a fuck-up—

 _”And?”_ Techno’s voice startles him as the radio crackles to life. _“I’m pretty messed up too, Wil. I’ve got voices in my fucking head. Should I leave and kill myself too?”_

“What? No— No, no, of course not, besides it’s not the same.” Techno’s problems are worse, are actual problems, and Wilbur’s... aren’t. “This isn’t— I’m being stupid, this isn’t anything you should worry about, just go home.”

 _”I’m not going home when my son is about to fucking_ kill himself,” Phil’s voice breaks at that moment, and the guilt swallows him whole. Calling them was just another fuck up on a long list, Prime, why didn’t he just jump? If he weren’t such a fucking coward—  
_“You’re not a coward, Wil.”_

Yes, he is—

_“No, shut up and listen to me. I’ve fought with hundreds of people, I know what strength looks like. You are unbelievably strong for lasting this long without help, Wilbur, and I promise, if you last a little bit longer, it’s going to be okay. You said you didn’t plan to die, and nobody wants you to die. Let’s go home.”_

“...you really think I can come back?” It sounds too good to be true, but Phil says it with such conviction that Wilbur can’t help but believe him.

 _“Of course. Always.”_ It’s said matter of fact, like everything else, and Wilbur breaks down, offering up apologies like prayers as he drops to his knees, vision blurry with tears. _“Can you pull out your coordinates, Wil? Or do you need us to find you?”_

“No, I- I can...” he swallows, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his sweater. With trembling fingers, he types in the x- and z-coordinates into the party chat.

_“You did wonderfully, Wil, we’re nearby. You’re safe?”_

“Don’t... please don’t leave. I don’t want— I don’t want to be alone.”

 _“We’re staying on, don’t worry,”_ Phil’s voice is soothing, a lifeline that he can’t let go of, and Wilbur presses his communicator further to his ear, tryin to hear as much of it as he can, eyes growing steadily heavier. _“I love you so much, you understand that, right?”_ I know, he wants to say but the words get stuck in his throat, and Phil lets out a sad hum. Fuck, _fuck— “That’s okay. It’s not your fault.”_

The sound of distant wingbeats stop Wilbur from trying to reassure the older man that he didn’t need to feel sad. Over the tree line, a figure swoops down, his usual graceful landing ditched in favor of stumbling into a run and tackling Wilbur. “ _Wilbur,_ Wilbur, oh thank _Prime,”_ Phil babbles, cupping his face. He wants to thank him for coming, apologize for the stress, say anything, but his mouth feels like cotton and his vision blurs. Wilbur’s so _tired._

Phil seems to have noticed too. Wilbur blinks, and suddenly he’s staring up at beady black eyes and pink fuzzy skin, and there’s glass being pressed to his lips. “Drink, Wil,” the pink figure says, and well... who is Wilbur to refuse? Maybe the sparkly pink liquid will wake him up.

Wilbur recoils as it hits his tongue, a salty and bitter sludge that makes him gag, but something pinched his nose, and it’s forced down. His eyes feel even heavier now. He doesn’t want to go to sleep.

“You need to, son,” a nice voice says, and oh, something’s stroking his head, running through his curls in just the right way. It’s so nice, and it’s so hard to keep his eyes open... “Goodnight, Wil.”

“G’dnig’t.” Wilbur murmurs, and he’s out like a light.

* * *

The first thing Phil does when they get home is clean Wilbur up and put him on the couch.

The second thing he does is call Tommy to check in and fill him in about Wilbur, who, in spite of his protests, was sent to spend the night at Tubbo’s house.

The third thing he does is pull out the alcohol for him and Techno. Phil practically collapses onto the couch opposite of the one Wilbur is laying on, burying his face in his hands as his eldest pours them both a glass, the exhaustion and stress hitting him all at once. “ _Fuck,”_ he starts, staring at the amber liquid, “Fuck, I...”

Techno is silent, sipping at his own drink. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of his twin’s bandaged thighs. He hadn’t spoken a word since Wilbur had passed out from blood loss, and his face had stayed painfully blank as he’d mechanically stitched up and bandaged whatever hadn’t regenerated properly. Phil should talk to him — Techno and Wilbur are practically attached at the hip, he can’t even begin to imagine how his son is feeling — but he’s still reeling himself. How could he not have seen the downwards spiral Wilbur’s been going through? Now the he’ll couldn’t he have seen the signs? “Oh, Wil...”

Techno’s fingers tighten around his glass, and in one smooth motion, he chucks it at the wall. Wilbur flinches in his sleep as it smashes, twisting a bit and letting out a quiet hiss. His twin is quickly by his side, sitting on the edge of the couch and running his fingers through Wilbur’s curls. “Techno—“

“Go to sleep, Phil,” his son says shortly, leaving no room for argument. Whether he likes it or not, Techno is staying with him.

Phil sighs, feeling the weight of his years on his back. “I’ll stay down here with you, then.”

“...What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to help him heal,” he says, “We’re going to support him and make sure this doesn’t happen again.” He never wants a repeat of this night, never wants to hold his son’s pale and cool body as blood stains his fingers, and the inherent terror of holding his own son’s dying body takes hold. He definitely can’t let Tommy nor Techno experience that same terror again either.

He’ll get there in time to stop anything like this from happening again.

(Wilbur’s body slumps into his, a soft smile on his pale, lifeless cheeks. Blood drips down the sword, staining his fingers. Tommy and Techno are screaming in the background, and even with the knowledge of Techno’s eight wither skulls, all Phil can do for a few moments is focus on the corpse in his arms.

He’s always too late.)

**Author's Note:**

> quick vent one shot, not much to it :P


End file.
